


The Worst Timeline

by Call_Me_Apple



Category: Dream SMP - Fandom, Minecraft (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Bad Ending, Bittersweet Ending, DreamSMP - Freeform, Episode: e004 The Lost City of Mizu, Gen, Historical Inaccuracy, Manipulative Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Non-Human Clay | Dream (Video Blogging RPF), Ranboo-centric (Video Blogging RPF), To the fic, Web Series: Tales from the SMP, the lost city of mizu, to the SMP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-14
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-13 07:55:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29398695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Call_Me_Apple/pseuds/Call_Me_Apple
Summary: In the aftermath of Dream's victory, Ranboo had to find a way to deal with being haunted by his own past.A backstory to Tales from the SMP: The Lost City of Mizu told from the perspective of Ranboo, exploring what could have happened to result in such a terrible outcome to the SMP.
Relationships: Clay | Dream & Ranboo (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 8
Kudos: 83





	The Worst Timeline

**Author's Note:**

> tw // slight self-harm mention, lots and lots of emotional suffering  
> (pls tell me if more tws are needed I am terrible at them)  
> Listen to the [Tales From The SMP song](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=KFdUQ96M2IE) for extra immersion.  
> My beta-reader scratched his head at the fact that I write in present tense, so I decided to try past tense for this one.  
> Enjoy!

Dream won.

Ranboo kneeled on the ground, tearful eyes gazing at the carnage left in the final battle for the SMP - the ground torn to shreds from TNT and end crystals, grass and dirt smeared with crimson. In the distance, the prison loomed, smoke curling upwards from its walls and into the grey, sorrowful sky. In the aftermath of the massacre, the clouds broke open, weeping onto the battlefield, as if the universe itself was mourning such a massive loss of life. Ranboo ignored the agonizing burns the rain droplets left as they hit his unarmored body, adding onto the pain already radiating from his tear-streaked cheeks. 

A hand landed on his shoulder. Ranboo awaited the swing of an axe, the whoosh of an arrow to end his miserable life, but instead he heard the pitiful tsking of a painfully familiar voice. 

"This is no time to shed tears," Dream said, "this is a time for celebration."

Ranboo curled into himself, away from Dream’s touch, but the hand stayed. “Just get it over with,” he said through a lump in his throat. “Kill me.”

“Kill you?” Dream asked, amused. “Why would I do that? You’re no threat to me, Ranboo. I’d much rather have you by my side than in the grave.” Somehow, what should have been a reassurance brought only anxiety to the enderman, who curled further into himself. 

The new lord of the SMP huffed. Ranboo felt fabric surround him and looked down to see a green cloak being wrapped around his form. The cloth covered him entirely, protecting him from the rain that burned his skin like acid. Ranboo looked up at Dream with tired, questioning eyes. 

"It's not your time to die yet," the ever-smiling man said as his hand moved from Ranboo's shoulder to his arm, pulling the boy off the ground by the elbow. Ranboo stood on shaky legs, his eyes directed at the ground instead of the man trying to lift him. "There's much to do Ranboo, but first, let's get you under a roof."

And so they left the battlefield, the coward led by the victor. Ranboo ignored the stares of Dream’s soldiers, the grisly sight of death that surrounded him, burrowing deep into the crevices of his mind instead. In this world where he was the loser, his enemy the victor and all his friends the sacrifices of war, there was no sanctuary for Ranboo but his own troubled, twisted thoughts.

* * *

With no one left to get in his way, Dream put his unlimited power to use - gathering followers, founding cities. It was peaceful after the finale, with no conflict to disrupt the blossoming of Dream’s new empire. Ranboo should have been happy to not be involved in wars anymore, but every day he spent in the SMP, ghosts of the past haunted him. He saw the reflection of past wars, past deaths in traces of TNT explosions, in creeper holes, in ruined buildings and in shriveled up maroon vines. 

Ranboo’s sins laid heavy on his shoulders, plaguing every second of his life, his memory reduced to shambles from the stress. Each day, he would wake up to see an unfamiliar, sprawling city out his window, but would not be able to remember who was responsible for its construction. He lived in limbo, disconnected from the flow of time, not knowing what change had just occurred and what had been in place for days. 

During the day, he would roam the streets, his mind blank, absentmindedly picking up and placing grass blocks randomly to the dismay of the builders.

The only times he felt a little grounded was when visited by Dream. 

The Emperor, The Lord was what they called him now. No longer was he dressed in casual clothing or spartan armor - royal robes hung off his figure elegantly, a beautiful fusion of netherite plates and expensive fabric - ideal both for protection and grandeur. A netherite crown floated above his spherical head, gems glistening among its spikes. The circular jewels brought on a sense of familiarity, yet each time Ranboo saw the crown, he could not place why the sight of them made his heart stutter and anxiety spike. 

Ranboo both hated and loved Dream's visits. They were the only thing he remembered, the rest of his days lost to the void of his corrupted mind. Dream made him real, even if only for a bit, but sometimes Ranboo wished that even those little moments of existence perished from his mind. 

During the visits, they mostly just talked, Dream telling Ranboo about how the construction of the empire was progressing, tales that would be forgotten the moment Dream was out the door. Sometimes, they would reminisce about the past, about nations and sides, but those talks usually made Ranboo upset and sometimes even sent him into his 'sleepwalk' state right in front of Dream. 

One day, Dream came to the enderman hybrid with a proposition, and a complaint. 

"I am quite bored of your constant absentmindedness," the Emperor told him. "Your memory worsens with stress, doesn't it?" 

"That is true," Ranboo said. 

"So you'd get your shit together if you were away from stress…" 

Ranboo shuffled in his chair, discomforted by Dream swearing. He didn’t like where this conversation was going. "It should, yes. That's what happened before," he looked up at Dream fearfully, "you aren't going to… exile me, are you?" 

The Emperor shook his head. "No, no, I wouldn't call it that. But maybe some time away from here would benefit you. Did you have any projects in mind?" 

Glimpses of an old conversation flashed through Ranboo's mind, of him talking to… somebody, about projects and purpose. He remembered thinking how cool it would be to build an underwater city in some faraway ocean, away from everyone and everything. 

A wistful smile appeared on Ranboo's face, "I did, actually." 

And so he shared his idea with Dream.

* * *

It didn't take long to find a place for Ranboo's project. 

Dream knew the lands surrounding his empire like the back of his hand and was the one to suggest Ranboo a location. There was an ocean far enough from the DreamSMP to not be disturbed by casual travelers, but close enough to be reached without much hassle if a Nether highway was to be built. It was the perfect place for the city, so Ranboo packed his tools and set out to construct his sanctuary. 

He spent weeks gathering and melting sand into glass to use for the many glass domes of the underwater city. It was a slow and relaxing project. With each day of working, more and more tension left Ranboo’s stressed body and the fog that seemed to infest his mind was dissipating, too. He felt more real than ever when he had nothing and no one to worry about besides gathering materials and placing blocks.

With a much calmer lifestyle, his memory started improving. He didn’t have to rely on notes to keep track of his tasks as much, the world no longer seemed like a barely comprehensible blur. 

Another side effect of this, however, was that he started remembering the past.

Each day Ranboo would wake from a dream filled with memories - both good and bad, but always vague. Each day, he would return to the real world abruptly and feel the reacquired memories slip through the cracks, leaving only traces of themselves behind. Sometimes he’d wake with imprints of laughter on his mind, sometimes of blood and soot. Other times, he would wake with no memories at all, as if they had been torn from his mind.

The dreams grew more and more stark and vibrant with each passing day, until they evolved into full-blown nightmares.

One morning, Ranboo shot out of bed, images of blood, a fur coat and a golden crown fresh on his mind. He stumbled on his way out of the covers, falling on all fours on the floor, retching from the terrible anxiety that gripped at his heart.

Technoblade. He remembered Technoblade.

Who was Technoblade?

A friend, a soldier, a teacher, his mind supplied, but the memories were quickly slipping out of Ranboo’s grasp. He jumped off the floor quickly, ignoring his nausea in favour of running over to his most recent memory book. He opened the book to desperately scribble bits of recollections among construction notes and reminders, writing down whatever came to his mind when thinking of his dream’s hero.

Once finished, he looked over the writing again, trying to carve the refreshed memories into permanence in his brain. He didn’t quite remember everything - many blank spots remained in his memory, but he remembered enough to know that Technoblade was important, to him personally and to the larger story.

That day, he found it hard to focus on his work constructing the city. His mind kept going back to the dream, the nightmare, to the memory of Technoblade. Whenever he tried to shake it off, it would stick, plaguing his every moment. It made him wonder what made the person so prominent, why is it that this exact memory chose to haunt him?

And why did it make him want to weep?

* * *

The thing about serenity is that in time, it grows boring. Without any challenges and mild conflict life becomes colorless and bland, which is what Ranboo was experiencing at that moment.

Bored of doing the same thing again and again, he went on a little adventure around the nearby continent, simply exploring the landscape and gathering flowers to later put them in pots all around his sanctuary. As he passed by a field of flowers, he heard a buzzing to his right. Excited, Ranboo followed the sound to a wild beehive teeming with life, black-and-yellow fuzzy insects scrambling around in the walls of the tiny house. He watched one of the hive’s inhabitants pop outside in search of more pollen, then turn to him abruptly. A little spooked, Ranboo took a step back, before realizing the bee was probably just interested in the poppy he was holding. He stretched the hand with the flower towards the bee, smiling as it bumped into the petals. 

His smile was short lived, however, as a sudden memory turned it into a grimace. 

He remembered a different time, a different place, helping a friend lure bees into crafted beehives, his world filled with joy and laughter. He remembered feeling happy, feeling free. He remembered messy brown hair, a striped shirt, a friendly smile. 

He remembered Tubbo. 

The stalk of the poppy slipped out of his limp hand. 

Ranboo reached into his inventory with trembling hands, desperate to write down the memory, but he stilled as another recollection slammed into his mind like a freight train.

_Blood on his hands, a limp body at his feet, another figure in front of him, shouting and gesturing wildly. Betrayal, tears, failure, betrayal, betrayal, betrayal._

What had he done? 

The book joined the wilting poppy on the grass, followed by red and green droplets falling onto its cover, wetting the leather. Ranboo's hands crawled into his hair, fingers pulling at the strands, as if trying to tear the thoughts and memories out of his mind. 

What had he done?

* * *

The memories of the past came in tides - through dreams, through associations.

The books were no longer enough to contain his recollections. Almost without conscious thought, he started dedicating entire areas of the city to his past friends and families, filling the rooms with colors and things the person had liked, covering the walls with notes about their character. 

An old story was coming together in his mind, sewn from pieces of broken memory. Ranboo wasn't sure that it was a story he liked.

He would catch himself wishing he never left the Empire, never regained control of his life. Having just some of the memories back in place was causing him so much stress that his memory worsened again and his enderwalks returned.

Ranboo thought he wanted to regain his memories, his life, but in truth, he didn't, because the reality his memories formed was not one he wanted to live in. Some of the things his memories implied… were not pleasant in the slightest.

 _Feeling lost, confused, unsure of himself - never knowing what’s the truth and what’s a figment of his imagination. Having his secrets revealed to the world and to himself, feeling the judgemental gazes of the entire server on him, running, ignoring others' pleas for help. Watching blood get spilled from a distance, feeling like a monster, a traitor to all and, most of all, a coward._

These were the memories that haunted him day and night, this was the story he wished he could forget. 

Yet he couldn't. The memories of everyone were ingrained in him, the friendships, the betrayals, the many hurts others had caused him, the many laughs that he had in the company of others - it all lived on in his memory, rooted deep through the cracks of his fragile mind, impossible to tear out. 

Ranboo crumbled under the onslaught of his own past. He cried and wept and tore at his hair from morning to night, starving himself, scratching at his arms and face, his mind in a permanent state of turmoil from the never-ending, ever-growing assault of new, increasingly disturbing memories. He didn't want to exist as himself, didn't want to live the life of a traitor. Yet that's who he was. A traitor, a coward, a killer, a terrible friend, a monster. 

In what was probably Ranboo's darkest moment, a single, hopeful thought, the subtlest trace of an old, old memory, was what pulled him from the brink of complete insanity. 

He remembered when he had only just started the first memory book, how he had wondered if rewriting his own notes would also rewrite his memory. Had he rewritten parts of the memory books and forgotten about it? He wouldn’t be able to tell the difference, if he had. For all he knew, all of his memory books could be filled with nothing but lies.

So what if, instead of forgetting, he could just… remember differently?

The idea consumed Ranboo, possessed him. He could write new books, create a different, artificial reality to maintain this serene lifestyle he had found for himself. The future Ranboo wouldn't be able to tell the difference between what was memory and what fiction, he could live in sweet ignorance without this guilt and despair. 

With a desperation he had never felt before, Ranboo spent hours erasing and rewriting his own history, burning what couldn’t be rewritten in favour of writing it from scratch. The city he’d build was no longer an archive of history, but a museum of white lies created to maintain his own sanity. The pages of his many books no longer held the truth of the terrible things that had transpired on the DreamSMP, but fairy tales written by a madman to calm his own storming mind.

Alone and abandoned, Ranboo wove himself a web of lies, a safety net. 

And when he awoke from his trance, confused by the scratches on his body, the burn marks on his cheeks and the torn clumps of hair on his floor, he could not remember what had caused such damage, so he brushed it off, cleaned the mess and returned to building, none the wiser to the tragedy that had occured.

* * *

Time went on, and so did Ranboo’s life. He continued working on the city, creating utility rooms, putting decorations in the halls, generally making the place more functional. Near the end of construction, Ranboo was nearly startled out of his skin by a new presence at his home.

“Hello, Ranboo,” Dream spoke up behind him, chuckling as the other jumped up in surprise. The Emperor hadn’t changed much in the months (years?) it took Ranboo to build his city, unless his memory was failing him again. The other looked as grand as always, the same sharp-tipped crown adorning his head, the same permanent smiley painted in place of a face. “I thought I’d come over, see what you’ve been up to. Do you mind showing me around?”

Ranboo didn’t, in fact, he was quite excited to show off his work, so he led Dream through the halls of his city, describing each room’s purpose as they went. The Emperor looked around in intrigue, pausing on occasion to slide his long fingers along patterned walls and themed furniture. 

“What are the books for?” the guest wondered as he opened one, skimming through the pages. “Are these memory books but for… people?” Dream asked, bewildered. He was oddly immobile as he read the book, as if caught off guard by its contents.

“Kind of,” Ranboo replied. “I’ve been getting a lot of my memories back, so I started writing them down to make sure they stick.”

Infinitely curious, Dream went through the books Ranboo had written, finding great amusement in the stories for some reason. He seemed to find Sapnap's history particularly funny, chuckling at the writing in an odd, strained way, as if it both pained and entertained him. 

“These are your memories, you say?”

“Yes..?” Ranboo questioned, brows drawn together. “Is something wrong? Did I misremember something?”

“No, no.” the other was quick to reassure with a dismissive wave of a hand. “I just didn’t expect you to do something like this, is all.” Dream continued to read the books and explore the rooms with great interest. It was when he entered a darker room that his demeanor changed. That room was dedicated to Technoblade, a vengeful and valiant hero who fought for justice and freedom, who met his demise protecting the world from tyranny. Dream bristled and squared his shoulders as he entered the room, looking around with displeasure. Reading the books seemed to make him even angrier. 

"Your memory has failed you," he told Ranboo, voice strained, "Technoblade was no hero. He was a selfish man who brought others chaos under the guise of fighting for their freedom." He flung the book across the room angrily, without any care for the damage that could cause, as if the book was a pesky insect and not a storage of valuable history. Ranboo ran for his precious item with a surprised yelp, dropping to his knees to inspect the book for damage. “I suggest you get rid of that book and repurpose the room. Not all people deserve to be remembered. It will be better if you let the memory of that pig disappear into the fissures of your broken mind.”

Ranboo flinched from his position on the floor, holding the book closer to himself. “That… doesn’t seem right. Techno, he- … Techno meant a lot to me-”

His confused ramblings were interrupted by a hand falling on his head, knocking his crown to the floor and ruffling his hair. When did Dream walk up to him? “Oh, Ranboo, Ranboo, how selective your poor memory is…” Even without a human face to express his emotions, Dream managed to look down at the archivist with such condescension that it made Ranboo feel like a petulant, foolish child too dumb for his own good. It made him want to listen. “Don’t you remember it at all? Technoblade used you, made you think he was your friend. I thought you would have realised that in hindsight, but apparently not,” Dream explained to him in a voice laced with pity.

“He… he did?” Ranboo asked, confused.

“Yes, Ranboo.” Dream brought both his hands to the sides of Ranboo’s face, tilting his head upwards, ignoring the other's flinch as their eyes met. “Now, let me tell you what REALLY happened…”

* * *

Ranboo decided to follow Dream’s advice, once the truth about Technoblade had been revealed to him. He thought of just burning the books, but something in him kept him from doing it, so he put them in his ender chest instead. 

He also removed the rooms of some other… characters Dream had sneered at, trusting his friend’s judgement in what was best for him.

Was Dream his friend? Ranboo thought so. He wanted what’s best for him: encouraging him to leave so he could collect his wits, helping him remember his past correctly. Not to mention that there wasn’t really anyone left for Ranboo aside from Dream. George and BadBoyHalo were… around, but Ranboo didn’t know what they were up to these days, and they weren’t interested in checking up on him anyway.

So Dream was his only friend, which was further proven when Dream started visiting regularly again.

“Say, don’t you get lonely, Ranboo? You’ve got an entire city all for yourself,” the Emperor told Ranboo during one such visit. “What if we open the city to visitors? Turn it into a sort of… history museum?”

There was some sense to Dream’s words, but the idea didn’t sit quite right with Ranboo. This was supposed to be his sanctuary, his escape, except sometimes his own creation felt like it was torturing him. He felt as if his old friends were mocking him whenever he roamed their rooms, judging him for his betrayals, for his lack of commitment. Perhaps adding some actual, living people to the mix would dilute that atmosphere and make living in the city more bearable. 

“I understand your reluctance, but maybe some more interaction will help you in the end. Being stuck in your own head all the time just isn’t healthy.”

“Maybe,” Ranboo said tentatively. Again, Dream had a point. Just thinking about this was stressing Ranboo out, he had half a mind to just follow whatever Dream thought was best for him. His friend had his best interest in mind, right?

“If we make this place public it will need a name.” Dream looked around then, at the waving ocean, at the many stylized rooms. He put his thumb and pointer finger to his smile thoughtfully. Ranboo got the impression that had that smile not been permanent, Dream would’ve smirked. “How about… The City of Mizu.”

Mizu. A simple, easily recognizable name. “I like the sound of that.”

* * *

It didn’t take long for The City of Mizu to become a hub of activity. Soon the halls of Ranboo’s new home were full of people - some coming to learn more about their heroes, others looking for a place to stay. Ranboo was reluctant to reach out to so many unfamiliar people initially. He brushed off any compliment directed at him and his building skills, unused to receiving any praise, but with time some of the visitors grew on him, and he allowed a few people to take residence in his city.

To his own surprise, Ranboo found that he became quite renowned among the citizens of the DreamSMP. The stories from Ranboo’s books had spread all over the nation, causing the empire’s culture to bloom, inspiring others to create their own interpretations of his retellings: through visual art, music and theatre. 

There was another side to his books’ popularity, however.

“There has been an interesting development back at the Empire,” Dream told Ranboo with pride and amazement in his voice. “The people hear of our old adventures and treat them like Greek myths. They think of us as their idols now, some even equate us to gods. They’ve started building shrines and other places of worship.”

“That’s… interesting,” Ranboo offered hesitantly, finding it difficult to think of himself or his friends as anything approaching divinity. They were… had been just regular people.

“It really is,” Dream agreed. “You little city-museum project has contributed to this greatly.” 

Which was when Dream proposed to make him the Royal Scholar, the person responsible for archiving the country’s story, both past and present. Giving such a role to a person with troublesome memory seemed like a foolish decision, a point that Ranboo brought up to the Emperor. Dream, in turn, argued that in this situation, his lacking memory was an advantage. Relying on writing so much would only make Ranboo better at his job, as he would write down every little detail of what happened around him.

Ranboo took on the job of scholar with little objection, committing himself fully to expanding the vast library in his city.

The City of Mizu became his safe space, his abode. He barely left it, dedicating most of his time to maintaining his creation, only leaving to seek more knowledge for his books. His City became his life. It was there that he found all of his new friends, it was there that he felt most welcome.

It was there that he found his family.

It was odd, at first. Throughout his life, Ranboo had barely thought of entering a relationship, not to mention having children, yet only a few years after the opening of his city, Ranboo found himself settled down, married and nursing his own kids. He had a loving family and a job he loved - a fact he would’ve laughed at, had he been told this would be his future years ago.

Time passed, life went on. His mantle of scholar became hereditary, with his children taking up the job of caring for the city at some point in their lives. Eventually, his children grew up and moved on to create their own families, their own cities and towns, but a few would always remain to work as scholars, to maintain this well of history. 

Throughout his life Ranboo watched his friends' existence turn into a religion. Idolisation of the DreamSMP founders became the centerpiece of the Empire's culture - everyone had an idol they identified with, a hero they worshipped through tribute. It seemed weird, at first, but Ranboo grew numb to it in time. He could never quite come to terms with being one of the idols, however. He didn't feel particularly worthy of worship, but he let the visitors of Mizu fawn over him and his relatives either way, so long as they didn't try to steal anything or harm his home. 

Most of Ranboo’s descendants picked him as their idol, but one of his offspring took an unusual liking to Dream of all people, endlessly blabbering on about how great the Emperor was, dressing to look like him, spending day and night researching Dream's history, harassing Ranboo with questions about what his hero was like back in the wars. Ranbob was the boy's name, but Ranboo couldn't quite remember how far down his family lineage the young man was. Was he his grandson, great-grandson? Either way, there were more important matters to mull over than his relative’s odd obsession with a quirk of their culture. There was no harm in it, so Ranboo let it be.

It was all fine, his life was good, and Ranboo was happy. 

And if sometimes he would go over his own books and furrow his brows, feeling as if something was missing, as if something wasn’t quite right, then that was just a trick of his muddled mind.

And if on occasion he would open his ender chest and discover old versions of his books, ones telling a very different story and featuring very different heroes, then that must have just been a mistake of his past self, or a short-term indulgence into writing fiction that he had forgotten all about.

And if sometimes he would catch Dream watching him and his family oddly, shoulders shaking in mirth seemingly unrelated to any provided entertainment, then that must just be Ranboo’s imagination playing tricks on him. 

To him, a Royal Scholar, ignoring inconsistencies and oddities should have been a crime. A scholar, an academic brushing off potential pursuits of knowledge was unheard of. Perhaps it was a mistake on Dream’s part to bestow such a title on Ranboo, after all, but it was too late to reconsider his position. His children had already taken over most of his duties, anyway. Ranboo couldn’t care less what was right and what wasn’t at such an age.

The world was so much more peaceful, so much better. 

And if ignoring such little nuisances, cutting off his doubtful trains of thought is what it took to maintain that lifestyle of comfort, then Ranboo saw no problem in it. 

As long as he could be happy, his voluntary ignorance undisturbed, everything was fine.

**Author's Note:**

> Some tidbits of lore for my interpretation of The City of Mizu.  
> \- The only survivors from the main DreamSMP cast are Dream, George, BadBoyHalo and Antfrost. Maybe Skeppy? Everyone else is either dead or living far outside of the Empire.  
> \- Dream’s crown has the jewels from Technoblade’s crown in it, which is why Ranboo is so unsettled by it. Without the memory of Technoblade, he could only vaguely associate the jewels with someone he used to be close to without remembering the exact person.  
> \- The actual stream takes place probably centuries later from the end of this fic, once Ranboo and most of his descendants are either dead or have left the City of Mizu. Ranbob stayed willingly to preserve the history of his idol and his friends/opponents.  
> \- Had Ranboo not come up with the idea of rewriting history, he would've just been stuck in an eternal cycle of remembering his past, breaking so thoroughly that his memory would get locked away deep in his brain, eventually finding peace, only to remember again and repeat the cycle >:)  
> As fun an experiment this was, I didn’t like writing in past tense, so I’ll be going back to present tense for future works. Reading something in present tense seems to make it easier to immerse oneself in the character.
> 
> If you enjoyed reading, consider leaving kudos, comments and following me on Twitter!  
> And if you want to see more, subscribe to my profile on ao3!  
> [My Twitter](https://twitter.com/Call_Me_Apple_)  
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